


Polarity

by MoanDiary



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 10:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15750063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary
Summary: Sam dreams of two women, and loves one.





	Polarity

**Author's Note:**

> Happy GLOW renewal day! Wrote a horny, angsty kinda-sorta sequel to Clarity to celebrate.

A small, deceptively strong body drives him into the mat. A wiry, feminine form presses against him in one slow, sensuous writhe. 

The wind is knocked out of him. Even if he wanted to resist, he is inescapably pinned to the ground.

A small, sharp-nailed hand grips his manhood in an ungentle but not-quite-painful grasp. He freezes, except for his one free hand which moves to press into the silk-smooth skin of her bare thigh.

At his ear, her voice purrs “In Soviet Union, women direct television program, and men wrestle.”

* * *

Somewhere else in the motel, a door slams.

Sam wakes with a start, breathing hard. Hard in other ways. Blueish early morning light streams through the gaps in the curtains. He cranes his neck and squints to see the time. 5:45. Too late to go back to sleep, and maybe find out where that dream was going.

He maneuvers himself into a sitting position on the edge of his bed, adjusting his hard-on in his boxers into a more comfortable position. This really has to stop, he thinks.

It’s not every morning, but it’s a lot of mornings.

Sometimes Zoya hurting him, punishing him for his traitorous thoughts and bad behavior. Zoya pressing his face into the mat, her mouth burning hot against his ear, hissing insults and recriminations. Wiry and irresistibly strong.

And sometimes insecure, wide-eyed, pretty Ruth. Ruth in a green dress, whispering confessions that both acutely embarrass him and make his heart thump painfully against his ribcage. Soft and delicate and feminine and good-smelling, leaning on him for support.

Both result (depending on his mood) in either an uncomfortably cold shower or a few shameful minutes beating off under the hot spray. Neither makes him feel particularly fulfilled.

And then he goes to work and sees her, and she’s neither of those two dream women, and both at the same time. He thinks it’s this paradox that confounds him, that causes the dreams, that prevents him from being able to move on, despite her fairly unequivocal rejection. His subconscious can’t manage to recreate the entirety of her.

This morning, it’s going to be the cold shower, he decides.

* * *

“Morning, Sam,” she chirps brightly from the ring as he trudges down the center aisle of the theatre, a cup of white-hot coffee in one hand and his portfolio in the other.

“Morning, Ruth.” He drops into a seat in the fourth row with a sigh. It’s early yet, and no one else has made an appearance. Ruth is, of course, in one of those ungodly high-cut leotards of hers that he adores and resents in equal measure. He thinks about licking his way up the crease where her leg meets her torso. Maybe the cold shower was the wrong choice.

She continues warming up, doing a couple somersaults and bumps, then rolling her shoulders and her neck. He busies himself with his notes, scribbling a few ideas that had come to him on the drive in, determinedly not watching her, taking a few bracing sips of the awful, scorching coffee.

“You know, I think Jenny finished the last of the new costumes last night.” Ruth is now sitting on the mat, legs spread, grasping the toes of her right foot with her hand to stretch her hamstring.

“Yeah?” He replies, not looking, not looking, not looking, completely engrossed in his notes.

“I think we should test them out under the lights,” she says, switching to the other leg. “I’ve seen them, and there’s definitely a potential of sequin overload. They could blind some poor Midwestern family.”

He chuckles. “Fair enough. We can turn on all the stage lights and spots on later and see what happens.”

She slides under the ropes and down to the floor and walks over, dropping into the seat next to him. Their opening night is in one week, and the show is coming together somewhat more slowly than either feels comfortable with.

“There’s still a lot to do,” she murmurs, half to herself. He shoots a glance at her face. Her brow is knit with worry and she’s chewing her lip, contemplating the half-decorated set.

“This kind of thing always comes together just when you’re sure it won’t,” he replies, returning to his notepad. “Being prepared ahead of time--where’s the fun in that?”

She elbows him playfully. “In Soviet Union, play is performed outdoors so there is no need for lights, and in middle of winter so there is no need for audience. Save many rubles.”

He glances up at her sharply, the memory of the morning’s dream still fresh in his mind. Something of it must show in his expression, because her expectant grin falters a bit and turns quizzical. He quickly averts his gaze back to his notes, mortified to feel his cheeks heating.

“Is there something you--”

“I need to go ask Walt a question,” he interrupts, standing abruptly and gesturing backstage towards their stage manager, who almost certainly is not here this early.  _ Let it go _ , he wills her.  _ Let it go. Let it go, or I’ll spill my guts and this entire thing will be ruined. _

She gives him a long, calculating look, and after what seems like and age, stands to let him pass. Some part of him is disappointed. In her. In himself.

As he turns into the aisle to head backstage, to sit in a folding chair in some dim corner for fifteen minutes and wait for someone else to arrive, she grabs his forearm and halts him in his tracks with and ease that sends a thrill down to the base of his spine.

“We’re going to talk about whatever is bothering you, Sam. Eventually.”

He sighs and stares at his shoes. “Eventually. Not today.”

“Okay.” She releases his arm. “I’m going to hold you to that,” she says to his retreating back.

He dreads that day. And he can’t wait.


End file.
